


we become legend

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Far Future, Legends, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Not Really A Happy Ending, Professor Stiles Stilinski, adjustment, outsider pov, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2019-01-01 01:23:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12145554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: No one has heard a wolf howl here in decades. No one has heard an eerie scream split the night.There are legends, still, told in Beacon Hills.But they're onlylegends.





	we become legend

The city never does tear it down. Someone buys the preserve after the rash of killings and hate that ran the streets red, and it sits there, untouched. A burnt out shell that houses animals in the winter and teens with stolen bottles of whiskey and wine, sloppily rolled joints smoked as they giggled and told stories about this house.

  
Beacon Hills has a lot of stories, if you listen right. Not much happens here, not anymore. But there are stories. 

Of a family, fierce and wise and kind, who died in this burnt out house. 

Of creatures, wild and feral and deadly, who roam the woods. 

Of the boys, one quick tongued and smirking, a bat in hand and bursting with magic, one, big hearted and earnest, red-eyed and strong, who fought to keep their friends alive. 

There are stories, of a man with electric blue eyes, who protected the human boy. Of a girl with sharp knives and dimples and the girl who could sense the dead. Of a man with the soul and skin of a snake who knelt at her feet. There are stories, too, of humans--the sheriff with his kind eyes and the sharp tongued nurse, the cryptic veterinarian and the man who walked like he had returned from war, haunted and alone, his ice blue eyes fierce and lonely.

They tell stories, too, of how so many died. Too many, for good reasons, noble reasons, but still _dead_ , too young, too soon, too hard. 

There are stories, laughed at and repeated, as the years pass by and Beacon Hills drifts in peace and the woods are not frightening anymore, they aren't spoken of in hushed whispers. 

No one has heard a wolf howl here in decades. No one has heard an eerie scream split the night. 

There are legends, still, told in Beacon Hills. 

But they're only _legends_   


 

* * *

 

  
He walks through the forest alone now. 

He hears the stories, from the students he teaches and around town, half told stories hushed when he came too close. 

His hearing is better than they think, though. 

He smiles,  a little, and walks deeper into the woods, until he comes to an old stump, wide enough to sit on. It looks eerily the same, and he wonders how long it will stay, before it decays. 

Before they both do. 

Already it has been over a century. Far past the time he should have passed. He left once, right after---

He stayed away for almost three decades and when he returned, it was easy to pretend. To make them believe. They want to, even if they whisper legends they don't understand.

The stories they tell, they convince themselves are about someone else. His father or grandfather. 

Never him. Never _them._

He leans against the stump and looks toward the woods, eyes distant. Sometimes, he thinks he will look and see blue eyes gleaming back at him, a welcoming cry from his pack echoing through the trees. This is the only place he still feels at home. The only place where he doesn't feel alone. 

He settles against the nemeton, feels the familiar surge of magic in the stump and answering thrum in his chest. 

He looks down and smiles, a familiar aching sadness in his chest as he sees the markers. 

"Hey, Scott. Hey, Derek. I missed you this week," Stiles says, his legs stretched between the graves. 

This is where he always stood best. Between his alphas, his brother and his lover, and both of them his friends. 

He blinks back tears and begins to talk.   


* * *

 

  
They whisper stories, of Mr Stilinski. He's strange and reclusive, but teaches the best classes at Beacon Hills University. He asks for weird food at the commissary and sometimes can be found in the preserve, petting a rusty blue gas car. Sometimes, he talks to himself, like there should be someone at his side. 

He's strange, but not so strange. Not the oddest thing Beacon Hills has ever seen.   


 

* * *

 

  
  
He sits alone on the full moon, in the tunnels below the Hale house. He can hear kids moving around it--two are fucking in the same corner where he and Derek had sex the night of their wedding--and he thinks it might be time to tear the old place down instead of patching it up. 

He pets the fox kit in his lap and leans his head back to peer through the gate at the fat bright moon. 

They're telling stories, telling _their_ legends, and laughing. Scott would love it, he thinks, and Derek would roll his eyes and howl to chase them all away. 

A smile twitches his lips and the kit jumps down, chases a leaf while Stiles watches. 

He thinks it is very sad and lonely, to live long enough to become a legend.

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I write, half asleep at 2:30 am. 
> 
> I'm sorry. Truly.


End file.
